Drakyndra, Evil Master of Fandom (drakyndra) wrote,
Drakyndra, Evil Master of Fandom

Doctor Who fic: Possession

Title: Possession
Pairing: Ten/Rose, Ten/CassandRose
Rating/Warnings: R
Warnings for smut, darkness, some slightly shifty consent issues, and Ten being not entirely nice.
AU for part way through New Earth.
Notes: Many thanks must go to wendymr, for doing a fabulous beta job on very short notice, nostalgia_lj, for encouraging me to actually finish writing it, and everyone at my LJ who said they liked the idea.
Also, I do really love Ten. It's just he's very easy to write as being rather dark...
Disclaimer: The BBC owns all. I've just borrowed their characters for a little while.
Summary: "It isn't Rose in there, but he pretends it is."

It isn't Rose in there, and he cares.

At first he'd wondered. If something had been done to her, if she'd done something by mistake. So very like his companions, really, to wander off, and come back affected by some experimental drug, or with a neural graft or under someone's psychic influence.

This, though... this isn't Rose. Whatever, whoever it is behind those hazel eyes right now is most certainly not Rose. She is saying the wrong words, and doing the wrong things, and kissing him like Rose never would.

And he's kissing back like he never would with his Rose.

Not-Rose's fingers tangle fiercely in his hair, almost as fiercely as he kisses her. He traces his hands lightly up her sides, before grabbing her by the shoulders, and sharply pushing her away from him. She looks up at him, lips swollen, hair mussed, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

“She's gone,” he states. She just blinks back at him. “Novice Hame – that nurse. I think she was following us. You can't tell me that's not suspicious. There's definitely something going on around here.”

He glances past her shoulder at the terminal, glowing benignly. But Not-Rose, whoever she is, steps into his gaze, and he looks upwards, to wide eyes and pouty lips. She flutters her lashes, and takes another step towards him.

“But... we were just getting started. And we were having such fun, weren't we?” she says, voice all wrong, not Rose, not Rose at all. She takes another step forward, grabs his tie, and pulls his lips down to meet hers.

And he lets her. He kisses her back, just as violently, and when he feels her other hand slide up under his jacket, under his shirt, cool against his skin, he lets her do that, too.

He hasn't had a chance to try this body out yet, not properly. Not with anyone else, at least.

He pulls this Not-Rose towards him, and she presses herself against him, so close, so very, very close. He staggers backwards, a little off-balance until he feels the cold press of a wall, and he is sandwiched there, crushed between the hard wall and a soft body. Not-Rose has progressed to undoing his buttons, and his hands are fiddling with the clasp of her bra.

She breaks the kiss to breathe deeply, and glances down between them with a smirk. She's so tempting, right now. Flushed and breathing heavily, hair a catastrophe and lips bruised. Tempting, and whoever is in there knows it.

And yet... it's Rose. Rose's face, Rose's body, Rose's breasts crushed against his chest, Rose's thigh pressing between his legs, Rose making him sweat like he did every time he dreamed of this...

But not Rose's triumphant smile.

His Rose, but not Rose at all.

If she looks at him like that, slides her hand down his front, under the waistband of his trousers, does he even care, though?

He grabs her shoulders almost painfully tight, and in a moment she freezes. Not-Rose looks at him with Rose's eyes, and for a moment he could almost believe that it's Rose looking back at him with lust in her eyes, Rose looking so very debauched.

It isn't, though. It's a stranger, it could be anyone. And look at what this person is doing to Rose, doing to him...

He wants to, so very much. For a long time, really, but he always held back.

At this moment, he isn't entirely sure why.

But... it's Rose. He shouldn't. He mustn't. It would be wrong.

And, right now, he really doesn't care.

He pulls her sharply towards him and twists around, leaving her pinned against the wall, and then he kisses this someone with Rose's face, lets her kiss him back, lets her run her hands in his hair, down his back, lets his hands slide down to her waist, lets himself stand upright and look at her, look at this body he has seen a million times before but never like this.

It isn't Rose in there, but he pretends it is.

He kisses his way along Rose's collarbone, and bites hard at her shoulder, hands stroking down, down, pushing her jeans out of the way. One of Rose's hands curls in his hair, and the other is moving in ways that make him gasp. He starts moving one of his hands, and makes her gasp too. These nice long fingers have a lot of talents, it seems.

The other hand is busy unbuttoning her blouse. She gasps and writhes, and he pushes it back, and it falls to the floor, leaving her exposed and pale in the harsh hospital light. For a moment he can do nothing but look at her.

Not-Rose gives an irritated look, and with that hand of hers slides and this is Rose touching, Rose making him shudder and gasp, Rose whose jeans he is sliding down her hips, Rose who he touches, his Rose, all his.

She pushes him back suddenly, kicking the jeans off her legs, and for a moment he just stares. This is Rose. Nineteen years old, ex-shopgirl. Young and innocent and naïve. He is old and tired and has seen far, far too much. There is a whole universe of experience between them that tells him he shouldn't be doing this.

He can't do this, not to her. No matter how much he has wanted to.

But he looks into her eyes, and sees nothing of Rose. Nothing that is his.

So he closes his eyes, and kisses her, and pushes her back against the wall, and lifts her up and she wraps her legs around him and just sinks...

“Rose,” he whispers, as she moves ever-so-painfully slowly. “My Rose...”

She just throws her head and gives a throaty moan. He slides one hand back up her side, past her breast, past her throat, and just traces his fingers gently across her face. His Rose.

Her breath is hot against his hand, but her body against, around him is scorching, her nails digging painfully in his back as she moves, moves, moves...

And the world is shattered fire and Rose's moan in his ear, and all he knows is that Rose is his, his, his...

There's a long silence, broken only by two sets of rough breathing and the pounding pulse in his head.

The legs around his hips uncross, and he sets down this girl, this thing wearing Rose's body. Not-Rose gives him a sly smile and crouches down for her clothes. Slowly, absently, he gathers his own, and reassembles himself. Suit on, buttons done up, tie straightened. He can hear Not-Rose adjusting her own clothing in the background.

He just leans his forehead against the cold wall, and tries to get his thoughts back under control. Oh, Rose...

She would have misinterpreted it, he knows. Rose and her silly little human mind, thinking it meant she was special, that she was unique. But she isn't. She's just his.

They all are. He takes them and guards them and teaches them and protects them and shows them the universe and loves them and makes them his. All of them, his. Always his, even when they leave him forever.

And because they are his, he keeps his distance from them all.

He's never obeyed anyone's rules but his own, after all.

It didn't stop him from wanting, though.

But... this isn't Rose. He suspects a psychograft, even if they are banned. She's in there somewhere, certainly, but not aware, not conscious. A ghost in her own mind. He'll get her back, he'll get the Sisters of Plenitude to do something – they are in a hospital, after all. But, for now, she isn't there, not really.

She'll never know.

Not-Rose gives him a smile, gives him the wrong smile, and he just looks back at her. “C'mon, we need to work out what's going on around here.”

He turns away from her, stares at the terminal.

Rose is his. He can't touch her.

But this isn't Rose. This was just a dream, an illusion. Just another fantasy he could never have. This doesn't matter.

He turns back around to Not-Rose, and pushes her back to the wall, hands on her waist, kissing her furiously.

It isn't Rose in there, but he doesn't care.
Tags: fandom: doctor who, my fanfic (yes it sometimes happens)

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